Failure
by Relala
Summary: Failure to Spencer Reid is the face in the mirror. •STAND ALONE•
1. Failure

**~ failure~**  
Spencer Reid** T.** 1,094

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Contains many references to** Episode 16: Elephant's Memory **in **Season Three** and has one minuscule mention of something in** Season Four - Episode 20: Conflicted.**

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Failure.

That was not a word that the young man knew intimately. Mistakes were continuously made by humanity, of course-even by wunderkinds-and those were the kind of blunders that could generally be rectified. Mistakes could always be manipulated into a certain kind of success. After all, mistake is merely a longer word for error.

Mess up on a spelling test? Well, you can correct that by learning from the mistake and getting the word right the next time around. No big deal. A mistake in setting the alarm clock? Don't worry. Correct the timer.

Failure, however, was a distinct lack of success. _("Lack of success in something, or an unsuccessful attempt at doing something." / "Somebody who or something that is unsuccessful." / "A breakdown or decline in the performance of something, or an occasion when something stops working or stops working adequately.")_

Spencer coiled his sinewy hands into his long sandy hair, heartbeat pounding like a metal hammer inside his head, and shrieked in anguish, letting his suffering evaporate from within his chest and empty into the silence of his apartment. He did not wish to recall utterly worthless quotations from dictionaries long ago tossed into the rubbish of the world because of tattered covers and stained pages. Nor did he desire to remember mellow words and the gentle face which accompanied them.

What use was the remembrance of an eidetic mind to him now, when his whole universe was slowly falling to pieces? What use was he to the team when everything he had strived for had been ruined and his illusions of ingeniousness had been shattered?

"_That's my one year medallion. Took me _**six years**_ to get it."_

"S-s-shut up!" Spencer howled, his normally earnest tone now so full of horrid fury that it cracked awkwardly like sidewalk pavement.

Shoving his talon-shaped hand into his trouser pocket, he came away with a dull coin which he eternally carried, a token of victory belonging to a well-meaning man, and with all the restless rage within his limbs launched it across the room like a bullet. For a moment-a split second of glory-it glittered like a blazing chunk of the sun beneath the brilliant lighting before making contact with one of the vast windows which lined the far wall.

Through the glass it escaped, flying out into the nighttime air like a flash of lightning with a bang to make a clap of thunder proud. Shards of glass rained down upon the living room.

So long, he thought in loathing. Hopefully with the object gone the memories would leave him in blissful peace. What mindless cretin ever said _"It's only by our lack of ghosts we're haunted"?_ The memory which repeated inside of his head wouldn't let him ponder the question, let alone come up with the answer.

"_You're just giving it to me?"_

"_No... In a couple of months when you get your year, you give it back to me."_

Well, that would never happen. There was no chance that he would ever locate that coin since the windows overlooked a wonderful highway. A glorious expanse of hardened black tarmac which his dealer's beat-up truck would surely be driving along right now. All the dreams of his own one-year medallion had gone out the window, so to speak, and everything he had worked for had been demolished within a day of stupidity and a second of recklessness.

The echo of knuckles on wood vibrated throughout the house, the scuffle of heavy footsteps ambling towards him. And now, of all times, came the lyrics to a song so perfect for this instant that it made him laugh in complete bitterness.

"_Nobody's ever taught you how to live out on the street, / And now you're gonna have to get used to it. / You say you never compromise / With the mystery tramp,/ but now you realize / He's not selling any alibis, / And you stare into the vacuum of his eyes, / And you say, / "Do you want to make a deal?"_

No words were exchanged between Spencer and the errand boy, money and drugs simply switched hands in time old tradition of supply and demand. _("And he said nothing. Hard and serious like a young bear inside his teller's cage, his axe-hewn hands upon the paper bills aching with empty strength and throttled rage.")_

As soon as the doors were locked tight once more, Spencer hastily made his way to the bathroom and, standing upon the toilet, pushed up a single rafter with shaking fingers to expose a light blue kit filled with four clean needles. A whole package. Clean, transparent, slender needles. Ten months-almost eleven-of hard work and restraint blown to smithereens because of the pathetic recollection of a brutal experience within a new case which he could have never solved any quicker, as Morgan so lovingly put it.

"_I really don't understand."_

"_You will."_

Oh, wouldn't he ever! How could he have ever missed it? The obvious always stared you right in the face, and you always missed it. How ironic.

"_Took me _**six years**_ to get it."_

John had known with the uncanny accuracy that his mother possessed that he would not get his year. John had known he would not receive his precious coin. Obviousness was not so obvious, apparently.

He choked back another scream and readied the needle before stabbing it into his flesh.

_("He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; He has just done things by half. Life's been a jolly good joke on him. And now is the time to laugh. Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win; He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone; He's a man who won't fit in.")_

This is the end of it, Spencer knows, because he can feel it within his very soul. His career as Special Agent Spencer Reid has come to a catastrophic denouement. Even the drugs within his veins cannot let the young man forget about the decision that needs to be made and the events that shall follow. _("frightened suddenly/ I want to paint my name/ in huge letters/ on the ceilings and walls/ of every room-")_

Departure. Exodus. Leave-taking.

Exit, Doctor Spencer Reid.

It is time for the curtains to be drawn across the stage of his life, classic red fabric swirling across the hardwood floor as the precious actors stand and look out into the audience and make the final bow. The ending has arrived.

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**first draft:** _4-15-09  
_

**revisions: **_10-16-09 _**&** _6-25-12_


	2. Appendix

**DISCLAIMER:** _All quotes used in this FanFiction are the property of their respective owners. No money is being made for this. No copyright infringement is intended. _

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"Lack of success in something, or an unsuccessful attempt at doing something."

"Somebody who or something that is unsuccessful."

"A breakdown or decline in the performance of something, or an occasion when something stops working or stops working adequately."

**Taken From: **Encarta ® World English Dictionary © & (P) 1998-2004 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.

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"It's only by our lack of ghosts we're haunted"

**Taken From: **Can. Lit by Earle Birney

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"Nobody 's ever taught you how to live out on the street, / And now you're gonna have to get used to it. / You say you never compromise / With the mystery tramp,/ but now you realize / He's not selling any alibis, / And you stare into the vacuum of his eyes, / And you say, / "Do you want to make a deal?"

**Taken From: **Like A Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan

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"And he said nothing. Hard and serious like a young bear inside his teller's cage, his axe-hewn hands upon the paper bills aching with empty strength and throttled rage."

**Taken From: **Warren Pryor by Alden Nowlan

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"He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance; He has just done things by half. Life's been a jolly good joke on him. And now is the time to laugh. Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win; He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone; He's a man who won't fit in."

**Taken From: **The Men That Don't Fit It by Robert Service

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"frightened suddenly/ I want to paint my name/ in huge letters/ on the ceilings and walls/ of every room/ -"

**Taken From: **Departure by Glen Kirkland


End file.
